Friday, March 19, 2010

Baby, Baby It's a Wild World

It's trite, but I'll say it anyway: I miss my boyfriend, and while he hasn't really even been gone a full 6 hours, I am anticipating not having anything to do that will remind me of him while going about my day. It used to be I would listen to Mars Volta, and then Miles Davis, and most recently Afrobeat. He was busy this last half-of-his-semester/my-quarter. And so was I. I did a lot of work, more than I should have taken on. I got sick twice, which makes me nervous. I feel like my immune system has been holding on pretty well in the last few years, even getting better, but I'm thinking that the stress of school and trying to turn that off long enough for an intimate moment with J. has proven rather more trying on my health than I assumed.

And though it's lame to say it (again) I miss my friends. It was the Writer's birthday this week and I didn't even remember--nor had I any time to check into Facebook to be reminded. Part of me eagerly awaits the use of the brain itself as hardware for storing all of the information that I knew but couldn't access when I want--to know that you want something but not know until it's too late: that's what Freud call's nachtraglichkeit: delayed action--desire building like a wave but cresting too late, or a high-five on two different trajectories. That's what technology really is, I think: a way in which we are able to store, categorize, and process information in ever increasingly efficient manners. It's like evolution exhausted itself on man--rather than a processed image--a screen of information--we developed an immediate reaction: pain, for instance. Computers used to get slow because the available hardware space was filled, the processor chip too slow to transmit the information (a binary string more complex than DNA). We are reaching a point, Parka Boy says, where we can use rocks in the place of chips--after all, once you reach a molecule-wide strip of gold or copper you can't go any thinner. I think technology is man's way of exhausting itself.

J. and I run on a cosmic clock. Rilke's two strings and drawn bow sort of thing. He calls me before I do something stupid, that I knew I would remember with a pang of shame, and hurtled towards only in a sadistic passion of condescending douchery. He called from the basement of his grandmother's house, while his dad was getting ready for bed upstairs. I would be sleeping in that basement if I were capable of muting my own faggery or my passion for his son. If I could, we might be fucking right now, my lips pressed into flesh to keep quiet. It's hot to think about, I will again later.

I've come up with a 40 book summer reading list. Preparation for a comp exam. First pitch of a question was sent back by the editor. Re-draft, re-send, re-wait. RSVP in the mean time. Re-agree on hotel arrangements. Re-affirm excitement over conference. Re-mind yourself you will have fun. Right: the book list. Ugh. Oh! I mean...

J. calls and I realize that blogging is what I used to do to deal with missing him. But this is an ambivalent avenue. This is also how I used to deal with missing the Writer. Who I am also missing. Who I just drunkenly gmail chatted with for almost 2 or more hours. I lost track of time. A lot happened in between. Emails. A movie. (I like to mime the people who are intrigued at what they see...). 4 crap beers. A joint. A PBJ sandwich. Piss x6. I'm doing it now again, I guess. With a lot of ghosts, though. The Writer, School, J., this insistent libido. I said to my Old Man that I'm in limbo again, and to a former co-worker a posteriori: time to enjoy, but no money with which to enjoy my time. I will be exercising. Chin-ups. Bike rides up and down the lake. Excessive masturbation. (Does that count?)

J. has the belly of the Hermes bronze-cast in the Uffizi: boyish and beautiful. Perfect.

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